DC One: Dark Knight
by DC One
Summary: Before the legend, before the legacy... there was a man. When you look into the darkness within him... will you blink? - DC Reboot
1. Arc 1 - Shade's Past (1)

DC One

Dark Knight

Arc 1 – Shade's Past (1)

**Gotham; a city as brilliant in its design as it were destitute and corrupt. There weren't many who knew what gave the city its magnanimous presence though… it was unmistakable…**

The streets were dimly lit, heavy with the weight of confusion and fear. A young woman hurried about through the thickened air intent on escaping her pursuers. The lady, 21, blonde, and strikingly beautiful, tightly bundled her purse inside her coat weary of the company she'd attracted. A momentary lapse in judgment forced by yet another argument with her boyfriend led to the rash choice. In hindsight, it was a mistake.

Initially only two men took interest in the young lady, following at an uncomfortably close distance. They'd alerted a third man join them, gesturing towards the woman's exposed legs which neither her coat nor red skirt were long enough to hide. Just ahead two more thuggish brutes acknowledged the others and gleefully posted in the middle of the alley. She was cornered.

As thoughts raced through her mind in an attempt to keep up with her erratic heartbeat, the woman's movements slowed to a crawl. There wasn't a scenario that came to mind which brought her comfort, only fear. Suddenly…

A police car flashed within her view on the street just beyond the goons before her. With its brake lights illuminating the far wall of the alley she thought, _"Maybe, it stopped."_ If so, she could run. _"No, it had to have stopped," _a second thought insured her.

Panic quickly consumed the woman while guiding her feet forward; faster and faster. A man behind her reached out and gripped her coat, slowing but not stopping her. She quickly surrendered the coat in favor of running, tossing her purse aside as well to gain momentum.

"Help! Help!" she screamed. Perhaps, her voice could reach where her body couldn't. There was no response.

"You shouldn't have done that," a thug claimed, jumping into her path and grabbing the woman. "Why you in such a hurry?"

"Get off me," she yelled, struggling to get away. "Someone! Please—

The man slammed her to the ground, ripping the strap on her red skirt.

"Didn't I warn you about that? You're going to make me angry if you keep it up," he warned, revealing a pocket knife.

"Not much money for someone in such an expensive dress," another taunted, kneeling over the woman while he rummaged through her purse.

"Give me that!" a third demanded. He grabbed the wallet from inside the purse and went straight to the frightened woman's driver's license. "Vicki Vale... what a beautiful name. Tell me Ms. Vale, do you want to make it home tonight?"

The mere suggestion of what that comment meant left Vale speechless.

"Don't be like that," he yanked her up to her feet, "You should help me help you."

Vale cringed as the men surrounded her. A quick glance towards the street revealed to her that no one was coming. No matter how difficult it was she forced her eyes closed accepting her fate like so many other victims.

"Let her go!" A strong, menacing voice called out, alarming the thugs.

"What the hell was that?"

Vale's assailants eagerly looked around at each other trying to determine the hidden voice's whereabouts. A stunned Vale twisted about in her captor's hands looking for her would-be savior as well.

"Help me! Please!" she shouted, angering the man who held her in his grasp.

"Shut up!" The man struck her across the face while maintaining his hold. "No one's coming to save you. It's just some scared punk trying to play hero-"

Without notice, a masked figure clad in black attire descended from the rooftop crashing down on top of the man holding Vale. The young lady scurried over to the wall as her savior moved forward to confront the knife wielding thug and his associates though they quickly fell to the wayside. One by one, the vigilante aggressively punished the rogue brutes as Vale looked on awestruck.

Once the fourth goon fell, Vicki caught a glimpse of the fallen pocket knife on the ground. Despite her new circumstance, fear still guided her actions and she pondered what she'd do if she could reach the blade. Then a voice snapped her into reality.

"Run!" The vigilante demanded, making Vale aware of the immediate danger before them.

"H-he has-s a g-gun," she stuttered, the last of her assailant's idly standing before them confident the fight was over.

"I said run!" the masked man instructed again.

Vicki nodded her head then scrambled to her feet both grateful to and worried for her rescuer. The two men were poised with a dangerous intent that insured only one of them would walk away. Vicki could feel the same tension rising behind her as tears began to roll down her face; she was certain of the pending outcome for hero.

***Bang***

Vicki fell to her knees at the sound of the gunshot drawing the attention of the near-desolate street denizens of Gotham. A man, eager to help, ran over to the teary eyed woman assisting her from the middle of the road.

"Ma'am, my name's James Gordon," he rushed, "I'm a detective with the Gotham City Police Department. I need you to stay calm. Are you injured?"

"No, it's not me," she returned frantically. "The men in the alley; he saved me; they're going to kill him. You have to—

"Don't worry, I'll go check on him," Gordon stated, drawing his weapon.

The valiant officer sprinted to the corner and carefully peaked down the alley as his partner tended to the still distraught woman. Gordon couldn't see much from his position, just two shadowed figures; one kneeling before the other pleading for mercy. As James moved closer, careful not to startle either man, he noticed the towering, masked man holding a gun towards Vale's aggressor; bodies scattered about his feet. The scene instinctively broke Gordon's cautious approach.

"Gotham Police! Drop down your weapon."

The vigilante didn't respond. His eyes were focused on the goon cowering and groveling at his feet. He imagined that it was something like this when his parents died, when they were murdered. A moment were the galley of people that surrounded them that night faded away and it was just them: his mother, his father and their killer. His father pleaded, begged for the life of his wife and himself but there was no recourse that night. They would die…

And the man that killed them would run.

"Son, I need you to put the gun down now!" Gordon demanded.

"I'm not your son."

Gordon calmed himself, entertaining the ideal of calming the vigilante as well. "You're right. You're not but I do have a son. A daughter too. And they both want me to come home tonight to tuck them in. It's something a lot of parents take for granted. But I'm sure, wherever they are your parents would rather you be home tonight. Not doing this."

"My parents, that woman, this city… has been held hostage by sniveling scum like this that hold a gun in their hand and claim power," the man stated, angrily kicking the goon down to hover above him. "If I end his life here it'll stop one more robbery, cause one less rape or kidnapping, prevent one more murder."

"You're wrong. Crime won't end by committing criminal acts," Gordon argued, slowly inching his way towards the misguided young man. "You'll just be building on the foundation of bodies that pile up underneath you. Eventually you'll become the very villain you sought to destroy and by your notion, someone else would then pull the trigger to escape hostage from you."

"And do you plan on… being the one who takes that shot?"

"I don't have to, son," James blurted unintentionally, "Not if you don't force me. Let the law handle this."

The atmosphere seemed to settle slightly as the young vigilante took in the detective's words. There was some truth to them that he'd never attempted to acknowledge. Yet, the officer's last words rang the loudest in his head.

"Who's law?"

The masked man slowly turned to look Gordon in the eyes, now only a few feet away. His hand remained firmly on the gun pointed down toward the absentminded thug while Gordon lowered his own. James was confident that the vigilante didn't want to kill anyone given the damage he'd done thus far without casualty. He simply wanted to instill the same confidence in the youth before him.

"The people. I struggle every day to earn the trust of the people by taking down the bad guys. I put my life on the line to insure the people that the law can and will be enforced to protect them from the dangers of this city. I don't know your reason but tonight you saved that young woman without crossing the line you're walking now."

"So, what?! He and his goons go to jail, serve six months to a year while some other lowlife takes his place in the meantime."

"The system's not perfect but it can work. Once upon a time he and his friends made a choice to rob people of their freedoms instead of building their own. If you pull that trigger, you follow the same path." Gordon withdrew his gun. "I refuse to have any innocent blood on my hands tonight."

The vigilante didn't argue though he couldn't completely grasp Gordon's idealism either. The idea of surrendering made him a bit nervous but the officer's honest intent left the youth entranced. The seconds followed with the vigilante loosening his hold on the gun and handing it to a relived Gordon.

"You made the right the choice, son-

***Bang***

"Aahhh!"

"No!" James yelled as he dived for cover. The vigilante dropped the gun and stumbled over the bodies he'd previous laid out, tightly griping the gun wound penetrating his shoulder.

***Bang*Bang***

Two more shots fired towards the man as he raced down through the alley.

"Bullock! Stop firing, the suspect is unarmed! He's no threat, stand down." James called out, trying to regain sight of the misguided youth but he'd already vanished.

* * *

><p>"<em>What am I doing? This isn't why I came back. I don't want to die. They deserve better than that. Better than this. I have to be stronger. For them…"<em>

The man's thoughts began to slip away from him the more blood he'd lost. As the adrenaline faded, the pain seemed to rush in forcing him to stop running through the crisscrossing backstreets of Gotham's infamous Crime Alley. Panting for air, the man removed his mask using it to swaddle the wound.

Despite his condition the wounded man, 22; dark hair and eyes; and stoically handsome, remained very intact. After a brief reprieve, he unnervingly removed the bullet from his wound never giving in to the pain. Still, he needed medical attention and knew the hospital wasn't an option. The man grabbed the cellphone from his pocket hurrying to dial the numbers before his fingers loss their feelings.

"Hello."

"Alfred…"

"Yes, who is this?"

"It's me, I need your help…"

"Master Wayne… … … Bruce…... Where are you?"


	2. Arc 1 - Shade's Past (2)

DC One

Dark Knight

Arc 1 – Shade's Past (2)

**Five years. It had been five years since Bruce left Gotham. Five years of fighting demons, conquering fears, and accepting the need for the darkness within him…**

Bruce became weaker and weaker as time stretched on, minutes seeming like hours. The pain building in his shoulder had numbed most of senses and dulled his vision beyond the dark corner of the alley. The last thing he remembered before falling unconscious was the face of an old friend lifting him from the streets.

"_Alfred…"_ he thought, passing out moments later.

* * *

><p>Bruce woke up in a pool of cold sweat, unsure of where he was but certain he was safe. After all, there was no one else he could turn to, no one else he trusted. It'd been years since they parted and the world outside of Gotham had unquestionably matured the Bruce; however, Alfred could only see that young 8 year-old child that lost his parents within him. And no matter what, the older gentleman refused to lose another Wayne's life to that of a gun.<p>

"I've done my best to dress your wound," Alfred stated sternly as Bruce sat up through the pain spiking out from his shoulder. Alfred handed him a glass of water with dissolving pills bubbling at the bottom, "It should help with the pain."

"Alfred—" Bruce began.

"Don't," Alfred spoke up, predicting the youth's need to explain. "I've been sitting here… watching you fight in your sleep, not unlike when you were a child. But there was a difference… a certain degree of control…"

Alfred Pennyworth, 56, had a strong, slightly grim look that matched his unkempt facial appearance: the product of his harsh past and Bruce's absence. The life of an attendant without a charge gave Alfred little to do with his life after Bruce's self-imposed exile. Years prior to becoming an occupant of Wayne Manor, Alfred served in the British military where the hardships of war mentored and perverted him. The only godsend he'd truly found during those times was a young, American doctor named Thomas Alan Wayne, Bruce's father.

Thomas and Alfred shared a unique bond passively inherited by the former's son, Bruce. Ironically, their first meeting was a bit hostile to say the least; Alfred was bound by duty to take lives while Thomas was morally obligated to save them. Despite this, their mutual respect grew into strong friendship and deep respect. That same friendship would grow into a new opportunity in Gotham for the retiring Brit.

Alfred continued, "I realize you're not the young man I once cared for. But I'm afraid if I ask where you've been or what happened to you these past few years or last night, it would ruin how happy I am to see you now."

"It's great to see you too, Alfred," Bruce returned.

A moment of silence left them both feeling relieved, Bruce needing comfort more than Alfred. It wouldn't last though; it wasn't meant to. Bruce knew being at ease was a distraction to his goal and the reason he came back to Gotham: vengeance. This had to be the last time they saw each other.

"It was good seeing you again but," the words left him as he moved out of the bed, grabbing the shirt Alfred set beside him.

"You're in no condition to leave, Master Wayne. I—"

"I'm not your master," Bruce interrupted.

"Perhaps," he sighed, "though, as it were I assumed we were still friends."

The basis of Alfred's words struck a nerve in Bruce. Somehow in his journey, he'd forgotten what it meant to rely on another; what it meant to have a friend. The absence of his parents was often filled by Alfred when Bruce needed a friend the most. Even in the times Bruce fought against his own happiness, Alfred never strayed from his side. It was the same now.

"Thank you, Alfred." said Bruce with a sincere smile.

"There's no need, Master Bruce. I swore an oath to you remember?"

"Yes, I do," he answered looking around at the small, tattered apartment room. "So why are you living here? The manor—"

"The Wayne Manor is in ruins," Alfred stated, receiving little to no reaction from Bruce.

"How?"

"An earthquake, about three years ago."

"Were you injured?" he asked mildly.

"A few reopened wounds from combat, but nothing that lingered long enough to slow me down," he returned sarcastically.

"And," concern weakened his strong voice, "what about my parents' grave?"

"Remarkably untouched," Alfred replied, delighted at the chance, "as if they had a guardian angel looking over them."

"I need you to take me there," Bruce asserted in a crass tone, standing to button his shirt.

Alfred was stunned by the request, but his reply came forth as if were second nature to him, "I'll bring the car around front. Try not to stain my shirt. I'm afraid my skills with stitches aren't as _kept_ as your father's."

"I wouldn't know."

Bruce was left to his own thoughts as Alfred went to retrieve the car which remained stained by the young's man blood. Despite the pain of his gun wound pulsating throughout his body with every motion, Bruce felt oddly relaxed simply waiting on Alfred. Even knowledge of his family home's devastation didn't seem to move him. Instead, he was more so satisfied knowing that his parent's grave was still undisturbed.

The drive through Gotham was long, yet pacifying. The two men only shared a handful of exchanges, mostly about the city's condition but it was enough. Their familiarity with one another made it easy to move forward without any explanation of Bruce's return. Alfred also knew the dangers of asking questions he didn't necessarily want the answers to. A quick glance into the rear-view mirror revealed a deep sense of regret in Bruce's eyes as he looked upon the city; a sight Alfred was not accustomed to. It made the man weary of the future ahead of them.

A few miles separated the manor from the heart of Gotham. Many of the self-proclaimed _elite_ lived in the city outskirts; a show of arrogance and boastful pride. However, the Wayne family never fell prey to the need for stature. Its site, atop the peak of the city's limit, was chosen by Bruce's ancestors, the first Wayne family, as a means to see Gotham's growth over the ages. Now the home was in shambles and the city just a shadow of what they envisioned it to be.

"We've arrived, Master Bruce…"

Bruce looked upon his former home, wrecked by the elements and overtaken by nature. The main gate appeared to be pried open by trespassers, further evidenced by the graffiti painted across the mansion's outer walls. Unlike Bruce, Alfred was weary of the many warning signs littered across the yard, though, he was uncertain if it was confidence of eagerness that guided his young ward.

"During the quake, I attempted to save as much of your family's valuables as I could," Alfred informed as they made their way through the broken front door, "However, a group of miscreants took advantage of the aftershock to best me. In the end, I only managed to safeguard your father's journals, everything else what outside my grasp."

"Don't worry about it Alfred, material _things_ can always be replaced," Bruce said, admiring a torn portrait of his father and mother that barely hung above the crevice splitting through the manor.

"Even still, it can be difficult to replace the memories that accompany them. Master Thomas would have wanted you to have his journals."

Bruce looked back at Alfred with a daunting gaze, unable to silence the memories of his parents, "When was the last time you visited them?"

"Their anniversary, as always. I would have visited more but…"

"It's okay. I never expected you to tend to them. It was my responsibility."

"Master Wayne…"

"Please, stay here. I need to see them alone," Bruce directed, now faced with the opportunity to mend his past grievances.

"As you wish sir," Alfred yielded, allowing Bruce to venture forth on his own accord.

In the midst of walking down the corridor, Bruce discovered an overwhelming longing for the one thing he'd lost in life: his childhood. A single night in the galley of Gotham's Auditorium redefined most of his life when his parents were murdered.

* * *

><p><em>Thomas Wayne had gathered nearly everyone with a title of power or significant wealth to the auditorium in the hopes of conveying his plans for Gotham's future. Thomas wished to better his city in the same vein as his father and forefathers alike. Unfortunately, he'd only gathered the crowd to his own execution.<em>

_Alfred and Bruce were both in attendance, though, they would only become aware of the tragedy from the echoes of gunshots and screams coursing through the halls. Alfred's first thought was to protect Bruce, a task made difficult as a multitude of people began to bombard the corridors in search of an exit. The hardened veteran withstood the pushing and shoving of frightened men and women whilst holding on to Bruce's hand with every ounce of his strength. Still, it only took a slight moment of weakness for their hands to be forced apart, separating them between the flock._

_With no sign of Alfred amongst the many faces racing around him, Bruce crawled alongside the wall hoping to make his way back to his parents. Eventually, the youth accomplished his task to great horror..._

"_Mom… Dad…!"_

_The tears of an innocent boy would not be enough to wash away the blood of his parents._

* * *

><p>Bruce was careful with where he chose to walk through the Wayne plot. Though visually it appeared unaffected by the quake, the soft texture of the ground exposed its frailty. To anyone else, ignorance would blind them to the sinkholes scattered across the gravesite. Bruce shared a similar reality since he no longer was what he appeared to be either.<p>

"Mom… Dad… I've come home," Bruce spoke aloud, kneeling down at his parents' gravestone. "I'm sorry it took so long for me to come see you again. I told you before I left, that I'd do better to honor your memory… I—" His words were halted by the sudden drizzle of rain. "I just wanted to be… ready for the storm to come."

Bruce bowed his head in a moment of silence ignoring the downpour that had set in. The rain did well to hide the tears Bruce cried. Never again did he desire to feel the pain of such loss…

"Master Wayne!" Alfred yelled out, snapping the mournful man from his grief. "We have… company."

Bruce rose to his feet, turning to see Alfred just inside the backdoor of the manor. Just in front of Alfred, Bruce recognized another man who had taken care of him following his parent's murder. The very same man sheltered Bruce from the sight of his parent's lifeless body that fateful night and would go on to be named Bruce's legal guardian. His name was…

"Harvey Dent."

* * *

><p><strong>AN: I hope you enjoyed this chapter, if so, be sure to leave a review. And if you really enjoyed it check out DC One: Man of Tomorrow.**


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